


Irrevocably Bound

by Artifex_Verbum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Forced Bonding, M/M, Near Death Experiences, bonding to kill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28447590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artifex_Verbum/pseuds/Artifex_Verbum
Summary: Martin is thrilled when Malcolm visits him for the first time in ten years, but he has no idea that his son is there to complete a deadly task. *A/B/O and forced bonding*
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Irrevocably Bound

Martin should have known something was wrong but he couldn’t be blamed for his lack of perception. 

When Malcolm had walked into his cell for the first time in a decade, the air in the small space seemed to shift, the world itself gravitating towards his boy who had appeared like a fever dream. Martin had to remember how to swallow and breathe. He wondered if it was even real. 

His mouth went dry and his eyes went wide as he stepped forward, towards the end of his leash. The wire snapped into place and vibrated against the strain. 

Malcolm seemed scared. As Martin stepped forward, the profiler had taken a few steps back. 

‘How silly,’ Martin had thought. How much time had he spent with his boy? Surely he knew that he would never hurt him. Despite being behind bars, Martin had watched his progeny grow up. Sadly, the last time Malcolm came to see him was burned into his mind. The declaration of pursuing work at the FBI, the finality of the statement that he would never again visit. Panic had reared up violently in Martin’s chest and snapped his windpipe shut. Terror beat through his veins and he let himself angrily react out to fear. It was the wrong move - clearly - and he’d had 3,650+ days to mull over just how poorly he’d handled the situation. 

That day lived and breathed in his mind every day since.

The Harvard sweater. The way Malcolm’s hair flopped in front of his eyes and he had to push it back into place. The shake of Malcolm’s hand and the way his crystalline eyes dodged Martin’s scrutiny. The way the sunshine spilled into the cavernous cell and illuminated his boy as if he were holy; an angel forever chained to satan.

“Malcolm,” Martin uttered the single word now and donned a face-splitting smile. 

Finally. Finally after ten years, his boy had come to his senses and visited. 

But how could he not have caught it? Was he so desperate to see his boy now that he’d missed all the warning signs? 

There was a surety in Malcolm’s movements, but a shakiness in his voice. He brimmed with emotion that threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes. Martin wanted to draw closer, to comfort him, to fall on his knees with relief and gratitude that his greatest fear - that Malcolm would never return - was thwarted. 

Pathetic. 

It was pathetic that he did not see the coming attack. But then again, who expects their own son to kill them?

The warning signs were there. His boy was frayed at the edges, wearing a thousand dollar suit, but with bags under his eyes that belied great distress. His hand trembled and his throat worked to swallow down his souring resolve. “Dr. Whitly,” Mal said breathless, the name uttered as a question, sounding as unsure as Malcolm was to be standing in Claremont. 

Martin’s face twisted at the formal treatment of his name, but he didn’t push the issue. Hell, he was scared to even ask why Malcolm was there at all.

He’d had a decade to plan all the words he might say to his son upon his return. And yet, each possible phrase and sentiment fell away, crumbling like a sandcastle beneath the rising tide of shock and desperation.

Martin truly hated being thrown off, but here he was, gobsmacked. Malcolm nailed him for it too.

“You’re afraid,” Malcolm said, stepping even closer and bringing his unseen weapon with him. 

Martin chuckled nervously.

“Afraid? Of what?” 

“Of me,” Malcolm cracked a small smile. “You’re afraid that I’ll leave and never return.” 

“Malcolm…”

“You should be.”

Martin’s eyes widened in concern and he grit his jaw. He licked his lips as he gathered his words like a toddler reaching for magnetic letters. 

“When you left, I drowned,” he started, opting for an emotional appeal. “I experienced a darkness that I didn’t know was possible.”

“If you’re trying to get me to feel sorry for you, it’s not going to work,” Malcolm shot.

“I’m not,” he lied. “I’m trying to tell you that...seeing you today...it’s like coming up for air for the first time in ten years,” he wrung his hands together. The metal at his wrists clanged lightly at the movement. “And even if you never come back...I’m grateful for this,” his voice split and he hated that the words were true. 

Emotion that Martin had thought long dead sprang back to life in his weary chest. His heart began to beat and feel, shaking off the cobwebs of years of torment and despair. 

Despite Malcolm’s declaration that he wouldn’t be affected by Martin’s ploy for pity, he could also sense the verity imbued in the words. Martin was telling the truth and the worst part was that Malcolm cared.

He sensed the depression boiling beneath the surface of Martin’s breakable facade and it made his chest ache. 

Rather than giving in to those feelings though, Malcolm turned his caring into bitterness. Why should he care that Martin suffered in his absence? Why should a monster find any relief in this life or the next? He shouldn’t. He didn’t deserve Malcolm’s pity.

Martin, on the other side of that blood red line, witnessed this shift in his boy in real time. He watched his words fall over the young man like a blanket only to be shrugged off and left on the floor as Mal’s face dissolved into neutral once again. 

Disliking the intimate tone of their conversation, Malcolm took a breath and changed the subject. 

He began telling Martin of his copycat, how this case had brought him to the NYPD as a profiler. 

Martin expressed pride for his boy’s brilliance, but Malcolm seemed to simply shrug off the compliment and keep going. 

He and Arroyo’s team had solved the case. They caught the copycat. He even revealed that there was a moment in which he had considered coming to Martin for help, but that they solved it without him and so he didn’t need to. 

“Then why did you come?” Martin asked, tilting his head, toes touching the red line. He wished he could get closer.

“I came because...I can’t believe that you’ve...you’ve inspired even more suffering,” he answered sadly. “Even from behind bars, your killing has encouraged killing. Even from behind bars your shadow looms over my family...over me.”

A beat of silence passed between them and Malcolm drew even closer.

At the proximity, something like hope twisted between Martin’s ribs and he tried to snuff it out like it was tinder amongst dry leaves. God forbid it caught and spread. Part of him expected Malcolm to punch him and even that contact would be welcome. Any contact would be welcome - or so he thought at the time.

“My boy,” he said with sympathy, “I’m sorry…”

“Are you? Because your initial reaction when I said you had a copycat was satisfaction.” 

“No - I - Malcolm...it was a momentary lapse. A feeling of twisted pride that I know is wrong. I don’t want to inspire killers and I don’t want to cast a shadow over you.”

“It’s too late for that.” 

Martin’s face fell. “Well, what can I do? I would make it up to you if I could. I’ll do anything - I’ll help you with future cases if you want? Maybe help you catch killers?”

“And why would you do that? You’d be working for the cops, for the very institution that caught you, that you hate.” 

“No...no, I’d be working with you - my boy.” 

Malcolm shifted where he stood and appeared to be considering the offer. He never wanted to stand this close to the monster, but he had no choice, and now that he was here, he could smell the sweet alpha scent of Martin from beneath the institute issued blockers. It was a perfume marred by a lemon-like slice of desperation. 

Could Martin smell him as well? His fear? His uncertainty? Could he scent his murderous intentions? He’d used the best blockers that money could buy, but it was a tense and emotionally heightened situation. Plus, the ventilation in the room wasn’t great. 

“I - I don’t know if I can work with you,” he bit his lower lip. “I don’t know if I can even come back again.”

“Oh no, oh Malcolm, don’t say that,” Martin strained forward. “Please,” he pleaded. “I’ll beg if I have to.” 

Unbidden, an image of Martin on his knees floated through Malcolm’s mind and he had to suppress a shudder from the power trip. His heart skipped a beat and then another and he had to take a deep breath and blink away the idea. 

“I’ll think about coming back. I just...I need time. Of course Mom and Ainsley would kill me if they knew I was here.”

“I know, but I’m so glad you came.”

“I had to,” now Malcolm was almost toe to toe with Martin. “With the case, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” 

That pesky pride and hope and love wriggled in Martin’s chest once more.

“I hate it,” Malcolm continued. “I hate that…” the words twisted up in a knot in his throat and his eyes wetted. 

“Oh, what is it?” Martin tried lifting his hands to bring them to his son’s face, but they were chained to his waist. 

“I hate that I still...care about you,” he met Martin’s gaze as tears slipped down his face. It was crushing to watch his words land upon Dr. Whitly. The surgeon’s brow knitted in saddened understanding. 

“I hate that I’m one of your victims,” he dared.

“No, oh Malcolm, no...you’re not…”

“I am,” he said solidly. “I lost my job at the FBI, I can’t have a serious relationship, I go to therapy twice a week, I sleep in chains because of my night terrors.”

“God Malcolm,” Martin moved his hands again. “God, I want to hug you. I want to hold you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Malcolm heard the words but didn’t believe them. He knew that Martin wasn’t sorry, if anything, the monster was probably thrilled that he had irreparably damaged him. He had left a mark so deep on his son that it forced Malcolm to think of him every day, to obsess over his dastardly deeds, to examine and question his own nature. 

But it didn’t matter, and after this week, it would never matter again. Malcolm had Martin right where he wanted him and he felt pride that he’d managed to manipulate the master manipulator. 

Tears streaming down his face, Malcolm moved forward to hug Martin. 

He had paid Mr. David to take a walk for a half an hour and Martin hadn’t noticed or perhaps just didn’t care. 

Martin did make a small squeak of surprise when Malcolm brought his body to his and wrapped his arms around him.

It wasn’t a good idea, Martin knew that. He was an alpha and he suspected that Malcolm was an omega. But he wouldn’t disengage for anything in the world. It was his boy, his son was back in his arms for the first time in not ten years, but twenty. Tears formed at his own eyes and slid down his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm hugged him tight and whispered the words against they skin of Martin’s neck.

“Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry about my boy. Nothing. I love you Malcolm.”

In hindsight, alarm bells should have gone off when Malcolm turned his face, bringing his mouth to the join of Martin’s neck and shoulder, right where his scent gland was. But none did, not until the deed happened.

One moment, his boy was in his arms and his world was reforming to something too fantastic to believe. And the next moment? The next moment, Malcolm had opened his mouth and bit down on Martin’s bonding gland. 

Shock ripped through Martin who let out a scream that reverberated off the reddish brown painted walls. His neck shouted in agony and the universe wobbled beneath his feet as disorientation made him wobble. 

His boy was pulling back and grasping Martin’s face in his hands. He wiped away the hot tears on his father’s face with his thumbs and then moved close once again, this time to plant a kiss on Martin’s cheek. He tasted Martin's salty offering even as he offered his own. Martin's beard tickled his lips and he felt dizzy but relieved.

“Now we’ll both be done suffering,” he said when he pulled back.

“Wh-what do mean? What have you done?” Martin’s ears were ringing. His head was tilted towards his shoulder to try and stop the pain but he knew that blood was coursing out of the wound. He couldn't even bring his hand to the spot. 

“You have to bite me back.”

“What? No! Never!” Martin shouted. But it didn’t matter if he did or didn’t bite Malcolm, he could already feel the bond solidifying. 

“I just force bonded with you,” Malcolm explained. “If you don’t bite me back, they’ll know what I’ve done. I’ll die in jail instead of in a hospital by Mom and Ainsley.”

“Die…” Martin’s mind tried to trudge through what was going on. 

“If you bite me, they won’t know what happened. Do it. You owe me.” 

“I - I can’t...bond...with you. We’re blood, Malcolm…” his voice was ragged and teetered with disapproval. “We can’t mate.”

“You’re right, we can’t. But the bond has formed regardless. Which means…”

“We’re both going to die if we don’t mate,” Martin’s voice was wet, cold, naked and shaking.

The alarm bells began going off around them. The sensors in the cell had begun to pick up on the bonding pheromones. Both of them knew it wouldn’t be long until guards and medical poured in to see what had happened.

“Time’s running out. Bite me,” Malcolm bared his neck and Martin quivered at the sight of the perfect alabaster offering. Arousal burst through him, itching under his skin and screaming at him to complete the bond. It was forming regardless and he didn’t want Malcolm to get in trouble.

“Fine,” he huffed, his fury eclipsed by arousal. 

Martin leaned forward and brought his mouth to Malcolm’s lips. Just to fuck with Malcolm, he kissed him there instead. He felt the pulse beneath the porcelain flesh flutter as he kissed and licked the spot. From the sounds he elicited, Malcolm was caught quite off guard. 

Then, just as the guards approached, Martin sank his teeth into Malcolm’s unbroken skin. 

No one else had ever claimed his boy, just as no one had ever claimed Martin, not even Jessica. 

The metallic taste of Malcolm’s blood flooded Martin’s mouth and he laved at the spot. Malcolm’s blood tasted like the finest wine and he found himself becoming drunk on it. 

Martin had never considered his son sexually, he was depraved beyond a doubt, but not in that way - not until now. Now Martin’s hands itched to touch Malcolm, to peel away his suit and explore his cool skin. His boy smelled like patchouli, sandalwood and rose. Whatever cut of rusty fear had been mixed into his son’s scent earlier was long gone, replaced with a citrus note of arousal. 

“Fuck Malcolm, what have you done?” he finally pulled away after leaving an impressive bruise on Malcolm’s neck. The guards were opening the door. 

“We’ll never consummate this bond,” Malcolm managed. “I’ve killed us both.”


End file.
